by Matt Larkin
And then she understood. They wanted her power for their war with Hiyoya. Already, as kupua, she might live much longer than a mortal. How long could she live possessed by a spirit from beyond Pō?
Many centuries.
Had the spirit spoken to her? The voice was like a hollow echo in the back of her mind, haughty and filled with disdain at the thought of conversing with a mere human.
“Princess Nyi Rara,” Ake said, “we must hurry back to Mu. In the years since your last host died, open war has engulfed the entire kingdom.”
“Lead the way,” Namaka felt her mouth say, though the words had not originated in her mind, and thus tasted odd.
At that, her body dove back beneath the sea.
9
Days Gone
On the hike to the beaches, Namaka paused just long enough to grab a fresh hibiscus for her hair. Tonight, they honored Lono with a luau that had drawn villagers from across the whole kingdom. The end of year festival was celebrated across all the island, and Kahiki, too.
By the water, musicians played drums, the gentle rhythm like the ebb and flow of the tide, beckoning Namaka closer almost as if in a dream. She remembered a luau like this, so many years ago, when she was just a girl and had begged Milolii to let her go. The dragon had refused, claiming Namaka might prove a danger to the villagers, but Namaka had no mind to listen.
Sometimes, she missed those days.
“You need to practice controlling your powers.” When the old mo‘o spoke, it was with the voice of a grandmother, one who had spent far too many years breathing in the smoke of sacred fires and now seemed in need of a good nap.
“Mahalo. I will,” Namaka said, scrambling out of the cave before the dragon could even react.
It was always like this. In a sense, as kupua, Namaka was a custodian of mana. To violate tabu was to offend Pō and risk disrupting the flow of mana throughout her island. But. But she was a person, wasn’t she? Did she not have a right to get something out of her life? How long should she wait to enjoy herself?
Sure, the mo‘o would be mad as a shark on a mountain. But the dragon wasn’t going to hurt her, and Namaka had learned a long time ago—if she wanted anything out of life, she had to seize it when she could.
Soon enough, she’d be expected to share her power and her body for the good of Uluka‘a. Mana meant everything, really. For kupua like her, mana allowed them supernatural powers. And kāhuna, well, they could send off ghosts and such, ensure the dead passed on through Pō rather than lingering near the Earth. But for most people, it was just the essence of life—and the more you had, the greater your life would be. Those with more mana held subtle influence over those with less.
And sex was the only way to share her mana, at least until it came time for the people to consume her flesh. When they did eat her, all the worthy in the ali‘i caste would absorb her power. Milolii had said that, when she died, the people would eat her as well, drawing in the mana that coursed through dragons. Either way, Namaka refused to let that be all her life was—a source of mana to her people. She refused to be a royal slave. She would be more than that.
Rather than walk the path down to the valley, she jumped into the waterfall. Its chill embraced her, suffused her very soul until she had to shriek with pleasure. Waters surged up beneath her, heaving her forward like a woman on a surfboard, skidding down the outside of the waterfall and onto the river. All around her spread an endless blanket of green, of vibrant life sustained by the waters. And those waters carried her on their surface, the wind whipping back her hair as she whooped. For five or six paces she glided on the river before her control faltered and she crashed beneath it. The waters sucked her under and spun her around, everything blurring around her.
An instant of fear seized her chest and the river immediately spit her onto the bank, scraping her elbows on the rocks.
“Ow.”
Simpler times. A queen had duties that—while they did not preclude such enjoyments—did limit Namaka’s leisure time.
When she’d come back, Milolii’s anger had rumbled through the Earth itself, bubbling through the stones and trembling like a volcano ready to burst. The dragon hadn’t moved, except perhaps for a narrowing of her one open eye, but Namaka could have sworn the cave closed in on her.
But it had been worth it.
Now, a cheer went up from the villagers as she approached the beach, and the drumbeats only intensified. Soon, the sun would set, and the displays would only increase. She’d heard, on the far side of the island, Pele’s firewalkers put on the most stunning displays of flame-tossing imaginable, but Namaka had a duty to attend the luau of her own kingdom, and thus had never seen her sister’s celebrations. A shame, really.
The boars had been roasting for days, the poi pounded out, the fish all caught. She couldn’t help but grin at the thought. It was going to be glorious, and already the villagers had begun lighting torch poles.
They’d stoked the imus, too, and the smells of roasting fish and luau leaves wafted pleasantly on the air. Pork, too, but of course not even a queen was allowed to eat such meat, reserved solely for men.
Tabus held the world together, after all. Without the tabus, some said Pō would spill into the Mortal Realm. The world was fragile, and, as queen, it was her duty to hold it together for her people.
Which meant, among other things, honoring the ‘aumākua. Namaka strode toward the center of the gathering on the beach, and waved to the musicians who began beating the drums and chanting the mele at an ever-increasing rhythm. As she moved, she slowly swayed her body, her movements growing faster as the beat did. Her hips took on a life of their own, jerking from side to side. Hula was all in the hips. She spun around, rapidly shifting her weight. Men began cheering and Namaka didn’t bother to hide her smile. Hands up, hands down, welcoming in the sun.
Hula was a kind of joy, and that happiness was contagious. This luau was vibrant, a pounding explosion of sensation, of life. Sights and smells and sounds bombarded her, and everywhere, smiling faces.
As the dance continued to intensify, she let go of everything else, was barely even conscious of the audience. It was like tapping into the sea. Primal, basic. An expression of her very soul. In the dance there was no duty, no tabus. There was only life, and the worship. For hula, done properly, was worship of the akua and ‘aumākua, and thus, helped regulate the flow of mana.
Lonomakua had told her once that traditions of hula came from the time before time, before the Deluge had created the Worldsea, in an age when Mu was land—Old Mu, he called it. The dance, as a regulator of mana, had served as a conduit for Muian schools of sorcery, as, even now, sorcerers and kāhuna oft relied on dance to work their Art.
But it was so much more than that.
Namaka whooped and whirled. Twisted around, ending arms wide in a big finish as the song concluded. Panting, she stepped out of center stage and took a seat beside the other women to a chorus of cheers, even as other dancers took her place. Moela lay down beside her, and she scratched the dog’s head.
Now, a man chanted a mele in time with a woman playing the ‘ūkēkē. Beyond them, a pair of fire dancers had begun to twirl flaming batons, tossing them in the air and catching them, even flinging them back and forth. Still probably had nothing on Pele’s firewalkers.
Leapua leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “There’s someone you should really meet.”
Namaka shrugged, still breathing heavily. “Bring her here, then.” Nights like this, she’d have agreed to almost anything. Nights like this, she could feel the pulse of the world in every beat of her heart. Strong and vibrant.
“Him,” Leapua said, pointing off into the outskirts of the celebration. “Someone Milolii sent. Upoho is with him.”
Now Namaka craned around to look at Leapua—she couldn’t make out the men in the darkness anyway. If Milolii had sent the wererat, she clearly wanted Namaka’s attention. With a slight frown, she rose and made her way over to where her kahu
na had indicated.
Indeed, Upoho did sit beside a bonfire there. If Namaka didn’t miss her guess, the man had yet more tattoos on his arms. Wererats, even more than most kupua, never fit well into society, often considering themselves apart from tabus, and thus finding themselves shunned by the ali‘i and kāhuna. Still, the man had his uses, and Milolii had all but raised him, making him a kind of foster brother to Namaka.
At his side sat a handsome man Namaka had never seen before, with a sea turtle tattoo on his chest, marred by a criss-cross of vicious white scars. The man rose as Namaka drew near, and offered her a formal bow. Even if his kihei had not identified him as high-ranked ali‘i, his manner would have.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Aukele, out of Lihue on Kaua‘i.”
Namaka glanced at Upoho.
The wererat grinned. “In Sawaiki.”
Well that was interesting. Now Namaka sat across from the foreigner. “You’ve come a long way.”
He nodded. “And I made the mistake of not coming with peaceful intent, having not conceived of your power.”
She stiffened. This was a survivor of the fleet she’d sunk last month. “You swam quite a way to reach the shore, then.”
Aukele nodded, raising a hand in placation. “Please. All I want is peace now. Like you, I am kupua. I beg your forgiveness for my rash behavior in the past.”
Namaka allowed a slight frown to creep over her features. “Why should I not have my kahuna sacrifice you? Hiyoya would be grateful for another sacrifice, especially a kupua.”
Aukele offered up a satisfying flinch. “I am known for the magic in my mo‘olelo. Let me impress you with my tale, and you may judge for yourself if you wish to keep me around your court.”
Namaka snickered at that. “Ready to wager your life on your ability to entertain?” She glanced at Upoho. The wererat’s presence here was a reminder that Milolii wanted Namaka to listen to Aukele. Not that Namaka had to adhere to the dragon’s wishes, but she’d be forever grateful to the mo‘o regardless. “Ah, fine. Tell your tale. See if you may keep your head with it.”
While she’d expected him to flinch, Aukele laughed and clapped his hands together. And when he spoke, his voice took on a strange timbre. Perhaps truly flush with mana and truly carrying a magic?
“I was one of five brothers,” Aukele began.
I cannot speak to why, exactly, but my father, King Huma, gave the inheritance of the kingdom to me, forgoing his sons with his current wife. My mother, you see, had already left him for his own brother, Kalana, and our relations with their side remained complex.
Regardless, my brothers—my half-brothers, rather—were wrestling on the beach when I came upon them one day. As we have already established, I can sometimes be a fool, and thus, I saw nothing of the ire in their hearts. Together, three of them set upon me. I’d like to tell you I thrashed them all and had them begging for mercy, but I can see you are a canny audience and not likely to fall for it.
Which explains how I found myself cast over the edge of the Pit of Hunger. Yes. They really called it that.
And yes, I fell dozens of feet before landing in a dark, muddy hole. Filth shot up my nose. Shards of bone from prior victims snapped under my fall.
A piece of someone’s femur plunged through my thigh.
I suspect they heard my howls of pain and rage far above. Oh, how I howled then, clutching my ruined leg, writhing in the shadows, begging the ‘aumākua for mercy. Until I heard something shifting down there, in the darkness. A massive bulk, mud squelching under its weight, edging closer and closer to me.
Gasping in pain and terror, I thrashed, scrambling away but making little progress with my wound. Another shard of bone punched through my palm, drawing a fresh shriek from me. I remember … I was dragging myself through the muck by my elbows, whispering a mele, invoking my ancestors.
Maybe the ‘aumākua were listening. I’ve never known for certain, and perhaps I never will. Who can say what the dead hear out in Pō?
The creature in there with me drew closer and closer. I could not see it, save for the displacement of shadows, shifting with its movement, dancing. Slurching. Its hot, putrid breath washed over me like a poison wind. It left me gasping, choking out more pathetic prayers to the ‘aumākua.
This was something come from beyond the dark of Pō, worming its way into the world to devour my body and soul.
So little light reached into the pit, just a single sunbeam, and I scrambled to keep that ray between myself and the creature down there with me, desperately convinced the light might somehow protect me. But the creature slithered its way closer, allowing a hint of that glow to fall upon its features … scales glistening with moisture. Horns jutting at irregular angles, and a long, vibrating frill that ran down its spine.
Were it not for the horns, the webbing between its toes, and the elongated body, I might have taken the creature for some giant monitor lizard. Only a tiny portion of the creature’s bulk came into the light, but I could guess at its size, larger than any such beast.
And now, perhaps you can guess at that of which I speak.
A mo‘o—a dragon. Something crossed over from dark waters so deep as to reach beyond our world. They were, I had heard some claim, children of the great taniwha who roamed the seas in the days of the Deluge.
The dragon circled around me, hissing, its thick, earthy stench almost too much to bear.
And then … it spoke to me. Its voice was like billowing smoke from an imu, deep as a volcano that had just begun to waken. “Your mele invokes your ancestors,” she said.
The sound of her voice had my heart seizing up in my chest and left me plopping down on my arse, trying to scramble away backward like some godsdamned crab, gibbering nonsense.
“You are the son of Uli, the sorceress of Kahiki who voyaged here across the great Worldsea. Uli, the descendant of Milolii, my granddaughter.”
Namaka stiffened, now staring hard at Aukele. The mo‘o—the greatest of them—could take human form and sire children. Kupua. She had heard it claimed by some, when they thought her not listening, that even her own father Kū-Waha-Ilo was a mo‘o who never revealed his true form.
And Milolii!
By the ‘aumākua … Could the dragon have told him to say all this, knowing it would predispose Namaka to spare him? Could Namaka’s old nursemaid have created all this as some elaborate fiction to manipulate her? But why?
And further … Namaka had heard the name Uli, though the sorceress had left Kahiki when Namaka had first risen to power here in Uluka‘a. Had left along with Namaka’s little sister Kapo.
Namaka leaned forward. “Who was the dragon in the pit?”
“Mo‘oinanea, she called herself.”
The ancestress of all mo‘o, some claimed. The great dragon who had led most of her kind on a migration to Sawaiki in the days of Maui, perhaps even in the Firebringer’s company, though not all tales agreed on their relationship. Namaka had heard it told that Maui had slain Mo‘oinanea’s father, the taniwha Toona, when the dragon had attacked his wife.
Now, all Namaka could do was rub her arms and shake her head, uncertain what to make of this man. Clearly, he was blessed by the ‘aumākua and perhaps the akua themselves, and clearly beloved of Milolii, if not the dragon’s own kin. That meant, she could hardly have sacrificed him now without arousing the ire of the gods.
Besides … she did want to hear more of his strange tale of far-off lands.
But not now, not when she had a luau to oversee. She glanced back over her shoulder to see Leapua still standing in the distance, watching her, then beckoned the kahuna over, closer. “Have Upoho and Aukele fed and given a place to stay in the palace as my honored guests. I’ll see to them in the morning.”
The kahuna nodded slowly, obviously trying and failing to hide the smile creeping at the edge of her mouth. Yes, fine, let her be pleased with herself.
Namaka rose and, casting a last glance back at the
Sawaikian, returned to the luau.
Still, much as she tried to focus on the celebration, she found herself perpetually thinking of Aukele’s tale. A man who had come from the far north after his grandmother had made the trek, returned here.
And Namaka had yet to ask him his true purpose in doing so.
Drunk on awa, Namaka writhed, Kahaumana’s head between her legs, his tongue sliding over her like an eel. While Kanemoe nibbled on her breasts and she licked his cock, moaning in the tumbling, sweaty embrace of her husbands.
The three of them groaned and grunted, until Namaka could not say where one session of lovemaking ended and the next began.
Her husbands were aikāne—intimate—with each other, as well, and Namaka had never begrudged them that.
Nights like this, in the tangle of flesh and passion, she thought she glimpsed the finest things in life.
When they were all spent, Kahaumana slept, snoring lightly. Kanemoe had one hand on Namaka’s knee, the second on her other husband’s shoulder. The younger of her husbands, Kanemoe had more energy than Kahaumana, if not as much as a kupua like Namaka. It had been Kahaumana to introduce him to Namaka, even suggest him as a husband, and Namaka had often suspected that was because her first husband fancied the Kahikian man.
“You are far away again,” Kanemoe said.
Namaka nodded absently. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“That life has never been better than this. The three of us.”
“You’re not thinking about the Sawaikian, then?”
Namaka sighed. Perhaps, a little. He was a threat to her perfect world, yes, but intriguing, nonetheless. “I had a … difficult childhood, Kanemoe. Did I ever talk of it?”
“You told me you had two other sisters, before Hi‘iaka. One who died, and one who crossed the Worldsea to Sawaiki.”